The marketplace outside the Academy of Flickering Stars buzzed like a hive about to explode. Vendors screamed over baskets of spiced starfruit, love charms that backfired into heartbreak, scarves that insulted you in five languages if you haggled too hard. But every eye kept drifting to the new poster nailed to the stone arch with a gold wax seal the size of a fist.
CELESTIA MOON BALL INVITATION ONLY ROYALS · ELITE FAMILIES · RECOGNIZED SCHOLARS A CELEBRATION TO UNITE THE KINGDOMS
A gang of street kids crowded under it. The oldest boy grimy boots, street-sharp eyes scoffed. "Another dance for the rich to kiss rings and step on the rest of us." His little sister spun, arms out, nearly knocking over a crate of singing apples. "I bet they dance like THIS!" She crashed. Apples rolled everywhere. A vendor cackled from his stall.
"Dance like that and you'll end up in a noble's purse, girl!" The kids howled. But Enya quiet one with the too-old eyes stared at the poster too long. "I'd give anything to see inside. Just once." The laughter died. Because they all knew. The ball wasn't for them.
Not unless they stole the story. Inside the academy's moonlit courtyards, nobles swirled like silk in poisoned water. Under starfruit trees that dripped silver sap, Cyrus of Mirehall and Valen Dore leaned against marble pillars. "What are you wearing to the ball?" Cyrus asked, twirling a dueling cane.
"Who says I'm going?" Valen replied, spinning his staff. "You fought a headmistress's illusion tiger." "And got bit on the ass." "Still counts." Across the grass, girls in lace and power arranged themselves like chess pieces. "Prince Lucien is returning," one whispered. "He'll sit at the head table." "So will Seraphina." "And I swear the Valmont's are hiding something. A daughter, maybe." A hush. Then sparks. "Ten crowns say I out-dance you before the fountain chimes," Cyrus grinned. Valen smirked. "You couldn't out-dance a drunk toad." Their mock duel sparked spell-fire that scorched the lawn before a professor stormed over.
"NOT ON THE MOSAIC, YOU IDIOTS!" The courtyard scattered like startled birds. But underneath the glitter, one truth settled cold: The ball wasn't a dance. It was a battlefield wearing diamonds. In the Hall of Ascendant Scrolls floating parchment whispering forgotten laws scholars argued under a glowing dome. "Why now?"
"Why invite every house?" "The old sigils are bleeding in the Weave." "This is politics. The Valmonts are moving pieces nothing more." An advisor swept in. "The Queen's order: brilliance on display. No stammering theorists. If you can't charm a courtier, stay home."
Outside, air-carriages docked on sky terraces, disgorging noble families like gods stepping off clouds. House Mirehall. House Sorell. House Ithren silent attendants, unreadable smiles. Each crest a declaration. We are here to be seen. And to watch.
Mina flipped through a glowing etiquette scroll ("How to Not Spill Soup on a Sylvan Prince") and snorted. "Who writes this garbage?" Kai looked up from sharpening his dagger. "People who've never fought for their dinner." A shadow moved behind the shelves. A man stepped into lamplight. Tall. Unfamiliar robes. Smooth gloves. Eyes like gold melted in midnight. Not professor. Not student.
He smiled like he already knew how the story ended. "Curious things, libraries," he said, voice silk over steel. "So much forgotten wisdom… just waiting to be remembered." Mina raised an eyebrow. "You lost, or just dramatic?" The man's gaze lingered on Kai. "Names matter. Especially the ones buried." He bowed perfect, mocking and walked away, boots silent on stone. Mina blinked. "Well. That wasn't ominous at all." Kai didn't answer. He was still staring at the empty space.
The candle beside him flickered blue. Across the realm from broken cobblestones to crystal towers the same truth whispered through gossip and grain, ink and magic:
The Celestia Moon Ball was not just a party. It was a stage. And every player scholar to prince, merchant to shadow was sharpening their role. In the South Wing Archives, where moonlight filtered through stained-glass constellations, Maria stacked returned spellbooks into neat, tired towers. Commoner. Library apprentice. Invisible unless someone needed something carried, cleaned, or quietly fixed. She pushed a stray curl behind her ear and muttered at a stubborn grimoire whose pages refused to stay shut. "Come on. Don't start hissing again. I'm not in the mood." The book hissed anyway. "Fine. Hiss. I hiss back." It stopped. A triumph. Small, but hers.
Students drifted past her like she was part of the furniture. Silks brushing her sleeves. Perfume sweet enough to choke. Whispers about gowns and invitations buzzing like fireflies.
Maria tried not to look at the posters. Tried not to ache. The Celestia Moon Ball.
A night she wasn't meant to exist in. Her hands moved automatically, stacking, sorting until a shadow fell over her desk. Not looming. Just… still. Maria glanced up.
"Can I help" Her words died. Prince Lucien Valmont stood there. In her library.
Looking directly at her. For a heartbeat she wondered if she'd faint, or explode, or both. He cleared his throat softly. A prince trying to seem harmless.It almost worked. "I'm looking for Miss Maria velyn " he said. "That's... that's me," she managed, cursing her voice for going squeaky.
Lucien smiled, just a little. "I hear you repaired the Weave-lock on Professor Aldrin's forbidden section access." He leaned closer. "Which he swore was impossible."
Maria swallowed. "I… just tightened the binding threads. And threatened the lock. A little." Lucien actually laughed a real one. But then the laughter faded, replaced by something more serious.
"I've been told," he said quietly, "to choose one student from the non-noble registries. Someone overlooked. Someone the court would never expect."His eyes held hers. "For the Celestia Moon Ball." Maria froze.
The grimoire on her desk rustled in disbelief. Lucien lowered his voice further, like the walls might be listening. "Fit the requirements," he said. "But that's not why I'm asking." Maria's pulse hammered. "Th..then why?" He hesitated the prince who never hesitated and looked at her like he was taking a risk even speaking the next words.
"Because in a palace full of masks," he said, "I'd like at least one person there who isn't pretending." Silence bloomed around them. Maria blinked too many times."…You're inviting me." "If you want to come." His jaw tightened."I won't force you. And I won't pretend it won't cause talk." Maria looked at her ink-stained fingers. Her mended robes. The students outside murmuring about crowns and bloodlines. Then she lifted her chin. "I don't care about their talk," she said softly."But if I say yes… it has to be for more than pity." Lucien inhaled sharply offended, almost. "This isn't pity, Maria." Her heart stuttered. He reached into his coat and placed something on her desk.
A silver envelope sealed with the Valmont crest. The wax shimmered like moonlight trapped in glass. "Think about it," he said, stepping back. "The Ball chooses its stories. But sometimes… we choose back." He turned and disappeared between the shelves, coat fluttering like a passing storm. Maria stared at the envelope. The grimoire beside her whispered, genuinely impressed: "Don't drop that." She nearly did.